


you are my sweetest downfall

by zach_stone



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Haircuts, Happy Ending, Hermann Gottlieb's Emotional Repression: The Fic, M/M, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), Recovery, this series of tags is giving me a chuckle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 11:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16554590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone
Summary: In which Newton comes home, and Hermann learns to let his walls down again.





	you are my sweetest downfall

**Author's Note:**

> you ever hear one lyric and it suddenly inspires an entire fic? mood. i wanted to explore some of the struggles hermann might have in the wake of uprising, so i thought i'd give it a shot. also my first time writing karla, so that's exciting. i've been sitting on this bad boy for like, more than a month at this point, so i really hope you enjoy!! couple of german phrases (which i may have butchered, i'm sorry) that are translated in the end notes.
> 
> title from samson by regina spektor.

When Hermann was eleven years old, an older boy at school cornered him during lunch and picked him apart mercilessly with taunting, aiming for all the things that made Hermann the frequent target of his peers. The boy threw in a few choice words Hermann only knew because Dietrich was a notorious foulmouth ever since primary school and delighted in whispering newly learned curses to Hermann as they sat at the kitchen table doing their homework.

Hermann, eyes welling with tears and nose red and sniffly, told his father what had happened as soon as he got home from school. Lars Gottlieb knelt to take one of Hermann’s hands in both of his. There was a cool, impassive look in his eyes, and Hermann’s gut churned with the swell of emotions he always felt for his father — a desperate admiration, a yearning for approval, a fierce shard of anger that Karla encouraged and of which Hermann felt ashamed — as they stared at each other for a long moment in silence.

Then Lars said, slowly and deliberately, “You must never, ever let them see that they’ve gotten to you. They will search for your weaknesses, and if you let them, they will tear you to pieces. Do you understand?”

Hermann understood. His father squeezed his hand, less a comfort than a way to punctuate his point. And Hermann took the advice to heart, buried vulnerability deep beneath his ribs, tucked safely away where it could not be used to destroy him. Newton called him _soulless_ on more than one occasion; a _robot_ , a _heartless bastard_ , which made Hermann bark out an incredulous laugh. Newton, who wore his _monstrous_ heart on his literal sleeves, Newton who left himself splayed open and practically begging for someone to come and twist the knife in deep like his scalpel into a kaiju specimen, Newton who —

Newton, who is sitting awkwardly on Hermann’s couch, drumming his fingers on his knees. Hermann sits in the chair across from him, watching as Newt looks around the room, taking it all in, practically vibrating with nervous energy. He seems thinner, hair a bit greyer at the temples. Scruffier, too. He looks achingly vulnerable, and Hermann quashes an urgent desire to wrap around him like defensive armor. There is no need, he supposes: the monsters are well and truly gone this time. After more than ten years, Hermann is alone with a Newton who is _really_ Newton. His heart beats a treacherous, anxious rhythm against his throat.

Newt’s gaze stops wandering, meeting Hermann’s, and he offers a hesitant smile. Hermann returns it instinctively. “It’s nice,” Newt tells him, gesturing to the apartment.

“It’s fine,” Hermann agrees, glancing around the sparsely furnished space. “I, ah, hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of decorating the spare room for you.”

“Decorating?” Newt repeats. He smirks. “What’s the theme? Did you get me a ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ sign?”

Hermann rolls his eyes. “ _No_ , Newton, I did not. I acquired some of your belongings and brought them here in order to make you feel more… at home.”

The smile slides off Newt’s face, and he looks momentarily panicked. “Hermann, I _really_ don’t want —”

“Nothing from your penthouse,” Hermann interjects quickly. “Things from — that is, things you left behind, when you left the PPDC. Your instruments, some posters, old T-shirts, that sort of thing.” He hesitates. “If you’d prefer, I will remove them.”

“No!” Newt exclaims. “No, no, that’s — that’s fine, man. Yeah.” Newt rubs his hands against his thighs once, twice, and then grins at Hermann again, his eyes crinkling. He looks so different without glasses. Hermann’s chest feels oddly tight. “You didn’t have to do that, Hermann. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Hermann says, his eyes sliding away from Newt’s to look instead at a point just above his left shoulder. “It was the least I could do to, ah — to welcome you home.”

He feels, for a moment, terrifyingly naked under Newt’s stare. There was a period — brief, six months by a generous estimation — after the end of the first war, when he and Newton had been intimate. Frankly, it was largely shoving one another up against the nearest surface, sticking tongues down each other’s throats and hands down each other’s pants. A decade of pent-up sexual frustration and what Newt called their “sad, nerd repression” breaking at last under rough fingers and hot, wet mouths. And then Newt left for the private sector and Hermann stayed, even as everyone he knew from the old days left and the PPDC turned into something far more reminiscent of a police state than Hermann approved of. He stayed, because he knew of little else to do with himself after so many years. He stayed because he foolishly hoped that Newton would realize his mistake and — well. That certainly never came to pass.

Surely Newt knows that Hermann loves him. Loved him then, in the wake of war, and loves him now, present tense. But they are different men than they were a decade ago. The reckless way in which Hermann opened his heart, still fresh from the Drift and surging with distinctively Geiszlerian impulsivity, is perhaps not wise to repeat in these circumstances. He tells himself it is for Newton’s sake that he does not act on these feelings, but he knows there’s more to it than that. He is afraid of what letting Newt in again would mean, what other walls he’s built inside himself might crumble.

_If you let them, they will tear you to pieces_. The moment Hermann met Newton Geiszler, he knew the man could easily shred his heart like tissue paper.

What’s more, Hermann knew that he would gladly let him.

 

* * *

 

“So how is he?” Karla asks, her voice slightly tinny over the phone. She knows Hermann is going to tell her whether or not she asks, or wants to know, but he appreciates that she’s asking. That she always asks.

“He’s doing… very well, honestly,” Hermann tells her. He is sitting on his bed, his bad leg stretched out in front of him. Newt is at his weekly therapy appointment and will likely not be home for another hour. “The six months he spent under observation were the hardest, and that’s all behind him now. He smiles more. He’s quieter than he used to be, but I think in time…”

“He’ll be back to annoying you to no end?” Karla supplies. Hermann laughs, quiet but genuine. “That’s wonderful, Hermann. I’m glad to hear it.” There’s a pause, then she says, “I still can’t believe you gave him his own room. I’d have thought you would just drag him into bed with you the very first night.”

Hermann’s jaw clenches, and he breathes out sharply through his nose. “Karla. We’ve been over this. It has been more than ten years since Newton and I had any sort of…  romantic entanglement. I’m not about to complicate his recovery by trying to re-instigate that before he’s ready.”

“Romantic entanglement, my arse,” Karla retorts, but her tone softens. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t joke about it.” There is another silence, this one so long that Hermann starts to wonder if the call has dropped, when Karla says in a careful tone of voice, “And how are _you_ doing, Brüderchen?”

“Fine,” Hermann says.

Karla scoffs. “Is that all you’re going to say? You ramble to me about Newton for forty-five minutes every day without stopping, but all I get about my own baby brother is ‘fine’?”

“I’m not sure what you’d like to know,” Hermann says stiffly. “I am the same as always, Karla. My focus is Newton. I should think that much is obvious.”

He hears Karla sigh, a burst of static. “I worry about you, Hermann. I wish you would talk to me.”

“I do talk to you. I call you several times a week. We are speaking right now.”

“Oh, piss off. You know what I mean.” Karla sighs again. “I have to go. We’ll talk again later this week, I’m sure. Give Newt my love, ja?”

“...Ja,” Hermann agrees, deflating. “Karla, I’m —” He pauses. He doesn’t know where that sentence was going to end, but it’s best if he stops it before it gets there. “I love you,” he says instead.

“Ich liebe dich am meisten,” she counters. There’s the hint of a smile in her voice, and Hermann smiles in response. When he hangs up the phone, he sighs heavily and closes his eyes. The question echoes: _And how are_ you _doing?_

How is Hermann Gottlieb, twenty-odd years after the start of a war he would once have relegated to the likes of the worst science fiction films, ten-odd years since his ( _drift partner, soulmate, metaphorical keeper of his heart_ ) lab partner dropped out of his life, only to return as the harbinger of the apocalypse, round two? How _is_ he doing? It’s a question Hermann has made a point not to ask himself, not now and certainly not before. When he ponders it, even for a moment, he can almost feel his ribcage creak and swell to breaking with all that he’s kept locked away.

He opens his eyes sharply, eases himself off the bed, and scoops up his cane. Best not to dwell. No good can come of it, never mind the sudden stinging behind his eyes. He told Karla he’s fine, and he is. He must be, for Newton, if nothing else. That’s all there is to it.

 

* * *

 

His dreams are drenched in blue, incomprehensible — fear, violence, the need to tear apart and destroy and devour — agony upon waking, his heart battering against the walls of his chest. He lays in bed for several long moments after his eyes fly open. He rests his arm across his face, huffing out a long breath. This is nothing new. It’s almost routine, really. Nightmare, jolt awake, putter about until exhaustion takes over, repeat. Hermann sits up, clicks on the lamp on his nightstand.

Newt has been free for seven months, living with Hermann for one, and Hermann has had a nightmare every night. He has a nightmare every night anyway, but he feels their weight more now that Newt is in his home. They’re just echoes, now, but he knows many of the images that haunted him the past decade were the result of a fading ghost drift with Newt, and that knowledge weighs heavily on his mind. So many years Newton suffered, and Hermann was too caught up in his own loneliness to see the obvious signs.

He thinks Newt knows he is still having the dreams, but has graciously decided not to mention it. Hermann appreciates that — he is loathe to consider adding to Newt’s burden with something so petty. Newt has plenty enough nightmares of his own to worry about.

There is a notebook in Hermann’s bedside drawer, one he keeps specifically for these occasions. Sometimes he draws fractal patterns, sometimes he writes out as many numbers of pi as he can recall; most of the time he just spirals onto the page until it is an incomprehensible mass of black ink. His thoughts weren’t always this scattered — he blames it on his renewed proximity to Newt, but that’s not entirely fair. Newt has been taking up residency in his mind for a long time, long before either of them strapped themselves into a Pons unit made of garbage.

His mind has yet to quiet, and he’s not nearly as tired as he should be at — he glances at his alarm clock — half past four in the morning. He sets the notebook aside. A nice cup of tea, that will soothe his nerves. He pads into the kitchen in his pajamas, his cane clicking softly against the tile floor, and sets the kettle on the stove. He’s about to turn the burner on when a soft voice says, “Hermann?” and Hermann flinches so hard that he drops his cane with a clatter.

Newt rushes over from the doorway to pick it up, pressing it back into Hermann’s hand with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, sorry. I thought I heard you out here.” He glances at the kettle on the stove, then back to Hermann’s face. “Can’t sleep?”

“Ah, no,” Hermann says, flushing. “I hope I didn’t wake you, I tried to be quiet…”

“No, you’re good! I was already up,” Newt says. He puts a hand on Hermann’s arm, and Hermann is embarrassed by how immediately his body reacts to the simple touch; how desperately he wishes to fold himself into Newt’s arms and stay there, held safe. He feels a bit pathetic. “I could use a cup too,” Newt is saying, still smiling at him. “Why don’t you sit down in the living room, I’ll make it.”

“I’m perfectly capable —” Hermann starts to protest.

“Dude. Let me do this for you.” Newt squeezes his forearm gently, and there is no way Hermann can refuse him. He nods mutely and walks over to the living room, dropping onto the couch. He rolls his cane between his palms.

He can hear the _click_ of the stove turning on, the soft clatter of Newt retrieving mugs from the cupboard. It’s comforting, that Newt knows where everything is in his kitchen. _Their_ kitchen. Newt may only be living here because Hermann volunteered to house him during his probationary period under PPDC supervision, but he likes to think they’re starting to make something of a home together. Newt seems — comfortable here, if a bit restless. There’s still an edge of awkwardness to their conversations, a hesitance that never used to be there. Hermann can’t fault Newt for this change; he knows he’s the one walking on eggshells these days. It’s exhausting, refraining from saying so much all the time to the one person with whom he’s used to having no filter.

Hermann is pulled from his increasingly morose musings by Newt emerging from the kitchen, clutching two mugs of tea. He places Hermann’s in front of him on the coffee table before sitting next to him on the couch.

“Y’know, normally when I want tea, I just put it in the microwave,” Newt admits, grinning over the rim of his mug as he takes a sip of what’s surely horribly over-sweetened tea. Hermann pulls a disgusted face, and Newt laughs. “Don’t worry, I made yours the _proper_ way.”

“I should hope so,” Hermann sniffs. He takes a small sip and is a bit surprised to find that Newt is telling the truth. It’s exactly the way he likes it, not too sweet or too bitter. “Oh,” he says quietly, without thinking.

Newt’s expression is soft. “Did you think I’d forget how you take your tea?”

“Honestly? Yes,” Hermann admits. He keeps his gaze locked on the contents of his mug. “It’s been a decade, Newton. It’s not an unreasonable assumption.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Newt says. Hermann glances at him; he looks pensive. “During the worst of it — when they had me really buried deep, you know — I’d just repeat little details to myself, like how you like your tea or how many paces from my end of the lab to yours, or — I don’t know, what your favorite episode of _Cosmos_ is.” He shoots Hermann an embarrassed grin. “It sounds stupid, but it helped me feel like I was still _me_ , you know? Like I still had something they hadn’t ruined. It wasn’t all about you,” he adds, teasing. “Don’t go getting a big head or anything. A lot of it was, though.”

Hermann doesn’t know what to say. He sets down his mug. “Newton…”

Newt shakes his head. “Hey, no, I didn’t mean to get heavy. Sorry. Anyway, are you okay?”

“Of course,” Hermann says automatically.

Newt looks unconvinced. “Right.” He opens and closes his mouth, hesitates, and then says in a rush, “You know I can hear you awake in the middle of the night every night, right?” Hermann stares at him, startled. Newt sets down his mug, too, and scoots a bit closer. “I know that day — you tried to talk to me about your nightmares, and I, or, _they_ were dicks to you. But I’m here now, for real, if you want to talk.”

Hermann does, desperately, and he hates that he does. Newt should not be the one comforting _him_ , when he has suffered so little in comparison. “It’s nothing, Newton. Trivial, really.”

Newt frowns. He’s always been able to tell when Hermann is lying. “You _can_ talk to me, you know. I mean, I get it if you don’t trust me the way you used to, but… you can. I promise.”

“I do trust you,” Hermann says, and he means it. He will always mean it. “I merely…” He pauses, and then — oh, to hell with it. He’s exhausted and that’s making him vulnerable. “I shouldn’t be having these problems,” he mutters. “What excuse do I have to still be wallowing when you’ve gone through so much worse and you’re coping so much better?”

Newt, to Hermann’s surprise, actually scoffs. “Yeah, except that I’m getting _help_ , dude. It’s nice that you think I’m coping well, that really does mean a lot, but I didn’t get this far on my own. I’m like this because I’m actually working through all the shit that happened to me.” He gives Hermann a pointed look.

“I don’t need therapy,” Hermann says.

“The hell you don’t,” Newt retorts. “You don’t talk to anyone. You won’t even admit to _me_ that you’re having a hard time, and if anyone’s gonna get how you’re feeling, it’s me.” He’s very close now, his knee pressing against Hermann’s, and he is so earnest that Hermann couldn’t tear his eyes away if he wanted to. “And look, I don’t want to sound presumptuous or anything, but I think it’s safe to say you haven’t exactly had the best decade, either.”

Newton is the picture of comfort in his sweatpants and one of the worn band shirts that Hermann saved for him. His hair is wild from sleep, and his eyes are wide and kind. He smells like Hermann’s body wash, and it is this last detail that widens the cracks in Hermann’s defenses enough that they finally, finally break entirely. He is crying before he realizes it, tears welling in his eyes and then Newt’s arms are around him. Newt holds him against his chest, rubbing Hermann’s back and murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay. Let it out, big guy.”

Hermann wants to apologize, to pull himself together and pretend that everything is fine again. But he’s been so lonely for so long, and Newt’s embrace is solid and familiar. Hermann presses his face into the crook of Newt’s neck, where once upon a time he could easily leave soft kisses or biting bruises. Now, he likely leaves tear stains and snot. So it goes.

By the time Hermann’s calmed down, Newt’s hand is in his hair, smoothing it down softly. “Your hair’s gotten long,” Newt says. He’s giving Hermann an out, the opportunity to avoid talking about this further. Hermann’s not yet sure whether he wants that.

“Yes, well, I haven’t had my designated stylist in a few years,” Hermann says wryly, thinking back to days in the Shatterdome, Newt wielding a razor and draping a towel haphazardly around Hermann’s shoulders.

Newt laughs. “God, I gave you the worst haircuts. I don’t know why you kept letting me do that to you.”

Hermann lifts his head from Newt’s shoulder and gives him a pointed look. “I think you know exactly why,” he says.

“Right,” Newt says. There’s a look in his eyes that Hermann hasn’t seen aimed at him in ten years, and it makes his heart hammer a little harder against his ribs. It would be so easy to close the small gap between them, press his mouth to Newt’s and lose himself to sensation. He wonders who he’s holding back for, really. Then Newt says, “I could give you one now, if you want.”

“Give me a what?” Hermann says, blinking, distracted.

“A haircut,” Newt says, and he’s smirking like he knows exactly where Hermann’s mind went first. “I won’t make it uneven this time, I swear.”

“It’s five in the morning,” Hermann says.

“That’s not a no.”

Hermann knows what this is — a distraction, a peace offering. A careful, hopeful request to trust. “Yes, alright then. I don’t suppose I’ll be falling back asleep, anyway.”

 

This is how Hermann finds himself sitting on a kitchen chair in his bathroom, facing his mirror, Newt standing behind him with an electric razor and a pair of kitchen scissors. There’s a towel hanging over his arm, and he’s chewing on his lip like he wants to say something. Finally he meets Hermann’s gaze in the mirror and says, “You might wanna take your shirt off. So it doesn’t get hair on it, you know.”

“Of course.” Hermann glances away, quickly tugging his pajama shirt over his head and folding it carefully before placing it on the edge of the sink. He doesn’t look at Newt as the other man drapes the towel around his shoulders, though he does reach up to hold the ends together at his sternum.

The razor clicks on with a muted buzz. “Okay,” Newt says. “I promise not to give you an ugly haircut.”

Hermann huffs out a laugh and closes his eyes. He feels Newt’s hand in his hair, pushing the longer bits aside so he can shave underneath. The sound of the razor is soothing, familiar. It makes him sleepy and calm. By the time the razor turns off and Newt’s moved on to the scissors, Hermann feels more at ease than he has in years.

“Alright, take a look,” Newt says at last. Hermann blinks his eyes open, wincing a bit as the harsh light of the bathroom momentarily blinds him. He regards his reflection in the mirror: his hair is neatly buzzed underneath, the same undercut he sported in his thirties, and the rest of his hair has been trimmed enough that it no longer touches the tops of his ears. Newt is brushing stray hairs off the back of Hermann’s neck, and his touch is so, so careful.

Hermann doesn’t think he looks much like he did at thirty-five. He can see the years wearing on his face, the permanent exhaustion in his eyes more pronounced than ever. _How are you doing?_ he asks himself, and he knows it is time to acknowledge the truth of the answer. It is time to acknowledge several truths, in fact.

“Well? How’s it look?” Newt asks him. “Not too lopsided, right?”

“Not at all. Thank you, Newton.” Hermann reaches back and takes Newt’s hand where it rests against the side of his neck, pulling it forward in front of him. He holds Newt’s hand in both of his own, his thumbs rubbing over Newt’s palm like a worry stone. “I need you to know something, and I hope my saying this won’t be a mistake. I don’t think it will be, but I — that is, I’m not certain —”

“Hermann, you’re rambling,” Newt says, sounding almost amused.

Newt’s hand is solid and strong, roughened by calluses and tiny healed scars from years dissecting kaiju. His nails are bitten to the quick, and there are a few freckles on the back of his hand, one in the corner of his palm. Hermann traces over Newt’s lifeline. “I still love you,” Hermann says softly. “I don’t think I ever stopped. And I understand if you need time, we are not — _I_ am not the same man I was ten years ago, but I hope there is a chance you could feel the same.”

He can’t bring himself to look up. He is splayed open and terrified of what might come next. Newt’s hand fumbles around in his until he laces their fingers together, squeezing gently. Hermann’s breath catches, and he feels Newt move closer behind him. Newt’s voice is quiet when he speaks. “I’m still trying to figure out… a lot of things, but one thing I don’t _have_ to figure out is how I feel about you. I love you, and I want to be with you. I never stopped, either.” He kisses the top of Hermann’s head, and then draws back, sputtering. “I got hair in my mouth,” he says sheepishly.

“Oh, come here, you ridiculous man,” Hermann says, and Newt steps around to stand in front of Hermann, still holding his hand. He smiles, wide and fond, and Hermann pulls him down until they nearly kiss. He hesitates, just a moment, Newt’s breath warm against his face. “Newton, may I —”

“God, _yes_ , you nerd,” Newt says, and kisses him.

The towel falls from Hermann’s shoulders, and Newt’s hands are warm where they press against his bare skin, smoothing up his chest, a palm flat over his heart. Hermann clutches the collar of Newt’s shirt. He didn’t realize just how starved for touch he’s been until now, and it seems he’s not the only one. Newton kisses him like he is a drowning man and Hermann is oxygen; he’s nearly frantic, and Hermann strokes the side of his face in what he hopes will be a comfort.

“I missed you so much, you have no idea,” Newt gasps against his lips, moving to kiss his cheek, below his ear, the sharp line of his jaw.

“I might have _some_ idea,” Hermann replies. “Newton, darling —”

Newt whimpers. “Call me that again,” he breathes into the skin of Hermann’s throat.

Hermann runs his hand through Newt’s hair, marvels at how quickly they fall back into these intimate touches. He traces the shape of Newt’s jaw with a reverent hand, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath his fingertips. “Darling,” he murmurs. Newt kisses the word from his mouth, and all the while his hand never leaves its place over Hermann’s heart. _It’s yours_ , Hermann thinks, foolish and hopelessly romantic as the sentiment may be. _It’s always been yours._

 

Their journey from the bathroom to Hermann’s bedroom is more of a stumbling dance, neither one willing to let go of the other. It feels like the end of the first war all over again, roaming hands and urgent kisses (to lips, throats, hands, anywhere they can reach). Hermann falls back onto his bed and Newt scrambles over him, a knee on either side of Hermann’s waist. Newt kisses wetly along Hermann’s throat, across his collarbone, and Hermann arches into the touch, fisting a hand into the back of Newt’s shirt. He’s nearly dizzy with love and a sudden, crashing wave of exhaustion. Newt sits up for a moment to yank his own shirt off, and Hermann drinks in the sight of him, soft and colorful and beautiful. Newt smiles at him, almost shy, and tosses his shirt over the side of the bed.

“Come back here,” Hermann murmurs, putting his hand against the side of Newt’s neck and guiding him back down to kiss him, again and again. Newt hums with amusement against Hermann’s mouth, and Hermann closes his eyes. He feels warm with Newt’s familiar weight over him.

“Honey, you’re falling asleep,” Newt says, barely concealing his laughter. Hermann blinks his eyes open. Newt is propped up on his chest, reaching a hand out to stroke Hermann’s cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Hermann mumbles, poorly concealing a yawn. “It’s very late. Or early.”

“Don’t apologize,” Newt says. “There’s no rush. We’ve got all the time we want.”

He’s right, Hermann realizes. Perhaps for the first time since he and Newton met more than twenty years ago, they have _time_. Hermann’s eyes well up for the second time that night, and he clutches Newt against him in a hug.

“Are you okay?” Newt says, muffled by Hermann’s shoulder.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Hermann sniffles. He noses against the top of Newt’s head. “I — I love you very much, that’s all.”

Newt kisses Hermann’s shoulder and pulls back enough so they can look at each other again. “I love you too,” he says earnestly. “I’m sorry I was gone so long. I never meant to leave you alone.”

“I know, dearest, I know,” Hermann says. “You’re here now, and everything’s all right.”

They rearrange themselves so they can lay side-by-side, noses brushing, and Hermann hooks a possessive arm around Newt’s soft waist. Newt smiles and kisses him, but when he pulls back his expression is rather serious. “We don’t have to talk about it right now if you don’t want to, but will you promise to think about what I said before?”

Hermann closes his eyes, but he nods. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Some hours later, Hermann wakes. There is a warmth pressed against his side; he blinks his eyes open and turns his head. Newt is curled under Hermann’s arm, his face against Hermann’s bare shoulder, his arm flung across Hermann’s chest. Hermann’s heart floods with emotion, and he reaches over the run his fingers through Newt’s bedhead. Newt snuffles a little but doesn’t wake, pressing even closer to Hermann and practically sticking his nose in Hermann’s armpit. Hermann has to stifle an incredulous laugh — it feels unreal, a giddy, ridiculous joy surging through him, the likes of which has hasn’t felt since he found himself jogging across the Moyulan Shatterdome landing pad to greet Newton all those months ago. That memory sits sourly in the pit of his stomach, and he hugs Newt tighter against him. He knows what Newt said last night is true, he needs to stop bottling up all the guilt and painful memories if he ever wants to be free of them.

With a sigh, he shifts a little and nudges Newt off of him. Newt still doesn’t wake, simply rolling onto his stomach and squishing his face directly into the pillow. Hermann resists the urge to let his hands roam the expanse of Newt’s back, to bury his face in Newt’s soft, messy hair. Instead, he eases himself out of bed, limping slightly even with his cane. He’ll get to his morning stretches in a moment; there’s an important phone call he needs to make.

“Hermann! Did I forget we had a chat scheduled for today?” Karla says when she answers the phone.

“No,” Hermann replies, sitting on the edge of the couch and wrapping his robe a little tighter around himself. “But this will be quick.”

“Is everything alright?” Karla asks, concern edging into her voice. “Is Newton okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Hermann assures her. “I… I wanted to tell you that you were right.”

Karla laughs slightly. “I often am. About what this time?”

“I haven’t been honest with you recently, Karla,” Hermann says. “I am not… fine. I don’t believe I’ve been ‘fine’ for quite some time.”

“Oh, Hermann…”

“There is so much I haven’t told you about the past two decades. About the war. It’s not easy to think about, let alone _talk_ about.” Hermann sighs. Even now, he feels the impulse to clam up and stop this conversation in its tracks. But another part of him feels such aching relief, and he holds tight to that feeling. “Newton believes I should seek therapy, and I… am not entirely opposed to the idea. I’ve spent so much time trying to care for everyone else, I may have forgotten to do the same for myself.”

“He’s a smart one, that Newt,” Karla says.

“Yes.” Hermann pauses, and then adds, “You were right about something else. I _should_ have taken him to bed that first night.”

Karla nearly crows in delight. “Does this mean you finally have?”

Hermann can’t help but smirk. “He’s still there, in fact.”

“And you’re here talking to me instead! What’s the matter with you? This is not how I raised you.” She starts laughing, and Hermann finds himself joining in. “Get back to him. But call me later, promise?”

Hermann promises, and tells her he loves her, and when he hangs up it is with the sensation of a weight lifted from his shoulders. When he returns to the bedroom, Newt is sitting up in bed, the blankets tangled around his waist. He squints blearily at Hermann.

“There you are,” he says. “It’s Sunday, you know. Normal people stay in bed late on Sundays.”

Hermann chuckles, sitting back on the mattress and tugging the blankets toward himself. “I’m not sure either of us have ever qualified as ‘normal.’”

“Well, let’s pretend for a couple hours.” Newt flings his arms around Hermann’s middle, nuzzling against his chest before resting his head over Hermann’s heart. He lets out a world-weary sigh, and Hermann runs a soothing hand along his back.

“Are you alright?”

Newt hums, thoughtful. “Right now? Yeah. I’m very alright.” He lifts his head a little to meet Hermann’s gaze. “You?”

Hermann doesn’t have to hesitate or pretend when he replies, “The same.” Hermann has not felt so complete in a decade, his heart in Newton’s trusted hands. They are on a road to recovery, and they are on it together.

**Author's Note:**

> german phrases:  
> Brüderchen = little brother  
> Ich liebe dich am meisten = I love you most
> 
> thank u all so much for reading!! comments always so so appreciated!! <33 i might write a companion piece exploring newt's recovery as well, if that's something ppl aren't too sick of reading about yet. 
> 
> hit me up on twitter @hermanngottiieb if you want, or tumblr @joshuawashinton


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